I had date with another 61 year-old. No, not the sexter, but a new one. It made me realize that I just can’t pull off the older-guy thing. How do the mid-life crises guys date women half their age? What do they talk about?

John was charming on the phone and eager to meet me AFTER he did my astrological chart and determined we were a good match. I will admit, older men have mastered the art of conversation. That’s their game. If you overlook the orthotic shoes, age spots, and receding gums and focus on the conversation, it’s not so bad. We met for happy hour and within one minute of meeting me, he wanted to hold my hand. After doing the six-second size-up, all my hand wanted to hold was a beer. When I did not immediately fall into his hands/arms, I was accused of being closed off.

Santa Barbara is like the Bermuda Triangle for men between the ages of 30 and 55. They just don’t exist. Or maybe they are here, but in some Area 51-type compound getting tested on so that the 60+ men can learn how to improve their game. Whatever the case, geezers I quit you.

I know this isn’t an LA-specific phenomenon, so I can’t blame it on California, but why do old, retired people insist on doing their errands on my time?

I realize they are the greatest generation, but what the fuck. Do they really need to be in the post office line at 8 a.m. with me when I’m trying to get to work and they are just killing time before Ellen comes on?

Oh, and here’s a good one. Rain. I think we can make a generalization that old people are bad and/or cautious drivers. Add a little rain in LA and you have a recipe for disaster. So why would old people come out in the rain to go to Trader Joe’s at 5:15 p.m. on a weekday only to shuffle around the store, hog the aisles with their carts, and stand in the 10 items or less lane. Seriously? Did the risk outweigh the benefits or did they come to Trader Joe’s to people watch?

Once again, aren’t they missing Ellen? Can’t they fill their voyeuristic needs at the senior center?

Social Security may be gone by the time I get to this age, but I promise, I SWEAR, I will do all my ordering online and if I can still drive, I’ll do it between 10 and 2.

Am I the only person who opens those annual Social Security statements and gets pissed? I discovered a way to redirect my hatred for all the geezers that get a paycheck thanks to me. It’s called disability.

“If you become disabled right now your payment amount would be about $1,924 a month,” my estimated benefits tell me. That’s tempting, especially since I’ve had a taste of “disability” during the last six weeks while I was in a soft foot cast. It gets me seats on the bus. My Russian neighbors make room for me on the sidewalk. And, last night, the greatest perk: I got handicapped seating at The Wiltern to see The Breeders.

Now we all know I’d have to live in a trailer and eat dog food to survive on that monthly stipend. But it is tempting, especially if it gets me out of working with colossal tools. I’ve been working since 1979 and I’m tired. But I’m also frustrated knowing that these Studio 54-Woodstock nation boomers are retiring on my dime and I’ll be lucky if the favor is returned to my generation.

I could buy a mighty fine trailer with the $71,630 I’ve contributed so far, or 600 kegs of beer and 100 bags of dog food. Until I figure out how I can work the system, I’m going to keep my crutches and soft cast nearby. At least I know I’ll have good seats at restaurants and concerts.

About Marna

Marna’s writing career started as a Pentagon intern. Early exposure to $500 toilet seat press releases made her appreciate creative nonfiction. Now she has more than 25 years of senior-level marketing and communications success working with Fortune 100 companies, government, nonprofits, small businesses, startups, and agencies.